


Sweet As Whole

by LinguisticJubilee



Series: love looks different without makeup [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguisticJubilee/pseuds/LinguisticJubilee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint had really no idea what to expect during his “be a SHIELD agent or the mob will kill you” orientation, but a three hour lecture on tattoo secrecy was probably not it.  The rules were clear:  you must register your soulmate(s) as “known,” “unknown,” or “nonexistent”; no one can know what your tattoo says; your tattoo can never be visible.  The purpose was to protect agents from being manipulated by unknown parties, but Clint suspected it gave them the excuse to wear those ridiculous head-to-toe leather ensembles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet As Whole

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for reckless behavior (Clint jumps off of a building without putting a lot of thought into whether or not he's going to survive it). It all ends happily, promise. 
> 
> Title from [that Sara Bareilles song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IcqRbPk_bk) because it was too damn funny not to.

Clint had really no idea what to expect during his “be a SHIELD agent or the mob will kill you” orientation, but a three hour lecture on tattoo secrecy was probably not it. The rules were clear: you must register your soulmate(s) as “known,” “unknown,” or “nonexistent”; no one can know what your tattoo says; your tattoo can never be visible. The purpose was to protect agents from being manipulated by unknown parties, but Clint suspected it gave them the excuse to wear those ridiculous head-to-toe leather ensembles. The exception to the rules was Maria Hill, who let it be known widely and publicly that she did not have a tattoo, she did not want a tattoo, agents who believed that people without tattoos were lying would be fired, and anyone who thought they should be pitied would be shot. Clint really, really liked Maria Hill.

As for Clint's own tattoo, it was a tiny word scribbled across his sternum: _yes_. Which was just, it was just laughable. For a guy who had been constantly shit on by life, he'd sure heard his tattoo a lot. He'd answer the phone – _“Hello?”_ – or just ask a fucking question – _“Can you give me change for a five?”_ – and the other person will respond _“yes.”_ Clint spent much of his early twenties constantly on alert during conversations with strangers, straining to find any sign of recognition in the other person. There never was one. Eventually, he gave up trying and taught himself to ignore the flood of hope that came with every new conversation. Even Coulson's first word to him was yes, which was both hilarious and sad because Coulson was so far out of his league it was like they were not even playing the same game.

Their first meeting went like this: Clint was on the run from both a pissed off Russian mobster and a SHIELD strike team. Clint had outrun the same bland-faced suit of an agent three times already and had begun to think the chase would never end. That was when he turned a corner and the spook tazed him in the chest. Due to some unfortunate life experiences Clint had built up a bit of an immunity to tazing, so he collapsed to the ground mutely and with far more dignity than most.

When the electric current stopped, Clint sat up and wiped the drool from his mouth. “You're a goddamned asshole, you know that?”

“Yes,” the suit said mildly, and Clint's heart stuttered in his chest. Clint had stared up in pathetic hope, and the agent responded by tackling Clint and handcuffing him behind his back.

It became obvious over the next few days that while Coulson admired Hawkeye and wanted to recruit him, they were not soulmates. Which makes sense, because once Clint go to know him he realized that Phil Coulson was amazing, and did not deserved to be saddled with an ex-carnie ex-mercenary never-ex-fuck-up like Clint. Coulson was intelligent but practical, competent yet wildly funny, and Clint couldn't help but wish his _yes_ was tattooed on Clint's skin.

Coulson refused to talk about his tattoo, but Clint found out through gossip channels that he had one and that he hadn't met his soulmate. Clint would pretty much give anything to know what Coulson's tattoo said. Clint might have fantasized about Coulson more than is exactly healthy. He knew it was fucked up – Clint had never had a problem with casual sex, but Coulson was pretty clear that he was only interested in someone permanent. So Clint felt a little guilty about it, dreaming of replacing a person who hasn't even been identified yet. He couldn't help it, though – Coulson was pretty much everything Clint had ever wanted in a soulmate. He couldn't believe he ever saw Coulson as bland.

Clint had done a pretty good job, he thought, of hiding his pathetic little crush. Sure he spent most of his downtime napping on Coulson's couch, and he may have had the man's preferred Chinese food order memorized, but he never said anything like “I love you” or “I promise I'll leave when your soulmate shows up”, so he counted that as a win.

At least, he had done a pretty good job until four years after his recruitment. That was when Professor Thermometer (“First name Rectal,” Clint joked. “No,” Coulson said.) decided to build an evil machine that would "harness the energy of global warming." It was a bulky Frankenstein of a doomsday device, looking like it was made out of a Prius hybrid engine, several dishwashers, and a dirty bomb. The rest of the team was out chasing a red herring, leaving Clint on a rooftop across the street from the Prof's apartment to make sure the damn thing didn't accidentally explode.

“Hey boss,” Clint said into his comm, “this damn thing looks like it might accidentally explode.”

Coulson's voice crackled in his ear. “What do you mean, Barton?”

Clint squinted. “Like, there's these red lights on the sides? They're flashing kinda evilly. And the whole thing is vibrating like a broken laundromat dryer. Plus there's the fact that every time I look through it with the fancy heat goggles you guys gave me it appears to be hotter than actual fire.”

“We're on our way to you. Can you do a full scan with the goggles and send it to Hernandez?”

Clint did a full scan and sent it to Hernandez.

“Hernandez says it's going to explode in three minutes.”

Shit. “And how far away are you?”

“Twenty minutes. Barton, we need you to take it out with an arrow. You have to sever the black cord that connects the generator to the turbine. That should shut it down. But you can't hit anything else or we risk a radiation leak or an explosion or both.”

Double shit. Clint had a good visual through the Prof's windows, but up on the roof he was at the wrong angle. From up here the cord was hidden behind one of the dishwashers. “Okay. Okay.”

“Do you have the shot?”

Clint surveyed the apartment, running scenarios in his head. “Yeah, I do, but you're not going to like it.” He set all the technical equipment down and grabbed his bow.

“Barton, what--”

“Sorry, sir, but like Spock says, the needs of the many and all that shit.” He stepped a few feet back from the edge of the roof.

“Clint--”

“I hope you find your soulmate, boss. I really do.” He tore the earpiece out so he didn't have to hear any more, nocked an arrow, and ran off the edge of the building.

Exactly two seconds later, he released the arrow into the Professor's window, cutting the black chord cleanly in half. He dropped his bow and flailed his limbs towards the fire escape. His right elbow caught on the edge of a ladder, pulling his entire body upward and making him shout in agony. Then he was falling again for a few breathless moments until something collided with his back and he blacked out.

***

The first time Clint woke up, he felt a warm hand on his forehead and a gentle voice in his ear, and was lulled instantly back into unconsciousness.

***

The second time Clint woke up, he moaned before he even opened his eyes. His left hand suddenly grew cool, and he flexed it instinctively. “Hello?” he croaked out, or a least tried to, but it was like someone rubbed sandpaper down his esophagus.

“You,” Coulson said, and his voice sounded like angels and Christmas bells and other things Clint imagined sound beautiful. “You are the stupidest person I have ever met.”

Clint grinned sloppily and opened his eyes. The world was fuzzy, but on his left was the unmistakable form of Phil Coulson. Even fuzzy, Coulson looked pretty. Like, the fuzziest prettiest princess. Clint frowned. “'M drug?”

“Yeah, Clint, you're drugged. You've been given a lot of drugs, do you know why? Because you almost _died._ ”

“S'okay.” Coulson was sad. Clint reached out an arm to pat sad Coulson on the back, but ended up grabbing his forearm instead. Clint looked over. Coulson's sleeves were rolled up, and beneath Clint's hand was black writing. “Ta'oo?”

Coulson sighed. “Yes, Clint, that's my tattoo.”

Clint closed his eyes. “S'ry,” he slurred, but he couldn't remember what for. He fell asleep, never letting go of Coulson's arm.

***

The next few times Clint woke up were rather more successful. Among other injuries, he'd torn his bicep at the elbow where it caught the ladder, broken both his legs from landing the platform below, and cracked a couple ribs just for good measure. He also had a concussion, but he wouldn't suffer any brain damage.

“No more than you suffered from before, at least,” Coulson said after the doctor gave him the report.

Coulson was around all the time, actually. Before, he'd always check in on Clint during medical, but this was different. Coulson was around _literally_ all the time, from when Clint woke up in the morning to when he fell asleep at night. Clint suspected that Coulson was not even showering with the appropriate frequency. Clint didn't know why the extra nannying was happening, but he was just enough of a selfish fuck to not question it.

It was going to take a lot of physical therapy and a few more surgeries to get Clint back to full mobility in his elbow, but considering Clint hadn't expected to survive at all, he refused to dwell on it. Two weeks after waking up the second time, they moved him to a long-term facility and let him wander around headquarters as long as he returned at specific times. Coulson requisitioned him a motorized wheelchair, and because it was Coulson, the wheelchair was the coolest thing Clint had ever owned. It had four-wheel drive with a top speed of thirty miles per hour, was capable of going up and down stairs, and had bright purple rims. Clint was back at harassing junior agents in no time.

Coulson's overprotective coddling continued. Clint indulged it for a while because it sent a chill up his (bruised) spine every time he knocked on the door to Clint's room. This last time, Clint was lounging in bed watching Judge Judy when Coulson walked in carrying a bag from Panda Express.

“Oh, man,” Clint groaned. “Gimme gimme gimme.”

“You got brown rice and chicken with broccoli. That's as much as Nurse Naidu would swing for me.”

“Can I drown it in soy sauce?”

“As long as it's sodium-free.”

Clint thew his good hand into the air. “Good enough!”

Coulson sat down in the chair next to the bed and distributed the goods. Clint had long-perfected the art of the one-handed stab, so he skewered a piece of chicken on his fork and grinned. “Dude, this is seriously fantastic. But you don't have to be so nice to me.”

Coulson looked away. “I'm not – I'm not a nice person, Clint.”

“You're the nicest person I know,” Clint said automatically, because it was true.

Coulson's eyes pinched. “Don't. Please, don't.”

Clint frowned. “Okay.” He stabbed another piece of chicken.

They sat in silence for a minute before Coulson sighed and set his chopsticks down. He lifted his face up to look at Clint. “I'm not nice. I'm a very selfish person. I never learned how to be otherwise. My parents were soulmates. They thought that 'soulmate' meant someone who was supposed to be their slave. It's not exactly a healthy perspective to begin a relationship from. It was a disastrous marriage, but they were too stubborn to admit it, so they lived in hell, shouting and throwing things at each other, and in the middle of it was me.” He smiled sadly. “Looking back on it, I can see that they loved me. Just not as much as they loved themselves. I was already pretty messed up, acting out at school, but then I turned eighteen and my tattoo appeared and I just – snapped. Ran away, got messed up in some bad things. SHIELD got me out of them and I've been here ever since.”

A lump began to grow in the back of Clint's throat. “Why did your tattoo make you snap?”

“They're not very kind words.” He shakes his head. “No, rather, they can be read as not kind. Already I had a very negative view of soulmates, and then to find out my soulmate didn't even like me? I decided I was never going to get involved in that madness, and screw how my soulmate might feel.”

An idea began to form at the back of Clint's mind. A terrible, horrible idea, and he couldn't bear to actually put it in words. “What does your tattoo say?” he whispered.

At this, Coulson paused. “I don't feel that way anymore,” he said quickly. “I was scared and stupid, but I want it now. I--”

“What does your tattoo say?”

Coulson just stared at him, a desperate look on his face. Slowly, he rolled up his left sleeve, words appearing one by one. His tattoo was a long, winding sentence, starting at his wrist and running up to his elbow: _you're a goddamned asshole, you know that?_

“You really are,” Clint whispered. He stared at those words, couldn't stop staring if he tried. Those words were on Coulson's skin since he was eighteen. Those words were on Coulson's skin when he tazed Clint in a back alley. They'd been there every day for the past four years, and Clint never knew.

“Clint,” Coulson begged, but Clint didn't look up from that impossible tattoo. “I love you.”

Clint snorted. “No you don't.” He felt sick.

“Clint. I really do. I – whatever stupid, idiotic things were going through my mind that day, it wasn't really about you.”

Clint looked up at that, if only so he could give Coulson the full effect of his bullshit stare.

“Okay, so that wasn't the best way to phrase that. But it was more about my past than anything else. I was scared. I didn't want anything like what my parents had. So I kept silent and tried to pretend it didn't happen. But you were just _there_ , all the time. You kept coming around to my office, bringing food and asking about my day. This may not make sense to you, but you are one of the only people to see me as a person, not a suit. And you aren't even doing it out of some duty to the soulmate thing, you just are that good a person. You're amazing, Clint, and I fell in love with you. I had no idea how to tell you how badly I fucked up, and then you went and jumped off a fucking building. And you said what you said, and I just need you to know that I don't want anyone but you. I'm not waiting around for something better, because you're perfect, Clint. I love you. I'd love you even if your words weren't tattooed on my wrist.”

Clint closed his eyes. He bit his lip to stop himself from blurting out the words back to Coulson. Because as much as he'd fantasized about this – and boy, had Clint fantasized about this – he couldn't believe it. Coulson was saying this because Clint almost died. Once the novelty wore off, Coulson would remember all the reasons why he hated the idea of soulmates in the first place. “I need time,” Clint finally said, but what he really meant was, _I need time to make sure you're not just gonna leave._

Coulson nodded. “I can do that. Do you want me to go?”

Clint swallowed the instinctual _No!_ threatening to burst from his lips. Clint rubbed the palm of his hand into his eye. Emotions were tiring. “No, just...let's just watch more Judy.”

“Okay,” Coulson said, his voice scratchy. “Let's do that.”

***

Life for the next few months passed much the same as it did before: Clint motored around SHIELD pissing people off, worked his ass off in physical therapy, and hung out with Coulson. The only difference was, before leaving at the end of the day, Coulson would look Clint in the eye and say “I love you.” There was nothing pressuring about it; it sounded like he was saying there would be rain soon. Clint liked it. It was a reminder that Coulson hadn't forgotten their conversation or changed his mind, and that he'd be there tomorrow, saying the exact same thing. It got easier and easier for Clint to imagine that this could happen for the rest of his life.

About three weeks after Clint got his leg casts off, he had a terrible PT session. He still didn't have full mobility in his elbow, which was just _perfect._ He'd been working himself to exhaustion every day and it still wasn't enough. The trainers told him it would come in time, but it'd been time already, and Clint was beginning to think he'd never shoot a bow again. He'd kicked a wall in frustration, which was just stupid because now his leg ached all over and he had to use the wheelchair instead of his cane. He snarled at Nurse Naidu until he left Clint alone, but as he moved down the hall he realized he was too sore to hoist himself into bed. It made him want to kick something all over again.

When Clint swung open the door to his room, Phil was already there, sitting in a chair by the window and reading some trashy romance novel. His hair shone in the afternoon sun, and Clint couldn't remember seeing anything as beautiful. Phil looked up at noise and closed his book. “Your PT ran late, so I thought I'd wait for you here,” he said, pointing towards the chair. “Is that okay?”

Clint felt tears prick behind his eyes. “Yeah, yeah that's okay,” he said quickly. “Just – help me into bed, will you? I'm really tired.”

Phil stood up immediately and crossed to Clint. He got an arm under Clint's good shoulder and the other under his knees, and lifted him to the bed. His chest was warm against Clint's cheek, and Clint's eyes closed almost immediately. When Phil let him down on the mattress, Clint didn't bother to open them, just laid there.

“I'll let you sleep,” Coulson said softly, but Clint reach up and fisted his good hand into his shirt.

“Just—stay.” He opened his eyes to look at Phil. “Please?”

Phil looked a little lost. “Okay,” he whispered. He toed off his shoes and arranged himself carefully on Clint's left side, legs carefully away from Clint's and his left hand resting on Clint's chest. Clint let his eyes drift close again, the stress of earlier melting away.

After a few minutes, Phil laid his head on Clint's shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered.

Clint felt himself smiling. “I love you too.” He bent his neck and kissed Phil on the forehead. “Asshole.”

“Yes.”

They fell asleep like that, Phil's arm lying on Clint's chest, tattoos brushing. 


End file.
